


an old sweet song

by R_Knight



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Bisexuality, Casual Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M, Multi, Obliviousness, Self-Discovery, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Tension, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-11 20:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18431621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Knight/pseuds/R_Knight
Summary: It goes like this: Jon finds some girls. Jon flashes his smile and ducks his head, coy, and then Tommy comes over with drinks, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and his tie tucked into his suit jacket.(Boys being idiots, idiots being oblivious)





	an old sweet song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



> The prompt/suggestion for this fic was so good and I had so many ideas for this, I just wish I'd had the time to explore it more! But alas, getting into postgrad and starting a job at the same time messed with those plans a bit. I hope that you enjoy nonetheless. 
> 
> Title from Ray Charles' Georgia on my mind. Keep it secret, warnings for casual (heterosexual) sexual encounters, alcohol sometimes involved, rough sex, mention of choking but nothing actually happening... I think that's it, sorry If I missed anything!

Tommy.

It goes like this: Jon finds some girls. Jon flashes his smile and ducks his head, coy, and then Tommy comes over with drinks, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and his tie tucked into his suit jacket. They get a little drunk. They let the girls choose who they want to fuck - their tastes are similar enough that if either of them pick out some girls it’s a good bet that the other will like either of them - and then they go home, and they fuck in their separate apartments, and then they do it all over again.

Sometimes it goes like this: Tommy isn’t feeling it, or Jon isn’t feeling it, so they’ll pick out a girl for the other, just for fun. Jon picks out small girls for Tommy, girls that curve their bodies toward him in conversation and who he thinks would let themselves be lifted up and fucked against a wall, if Tommy wants that. Sometimes he’s too polite to ask. Sometimes he’s just drunk enough that he does it anyway. Tommy chooses girls that are aggressively unimpressed by their jobs for Jon - knows that he won’t say it, knows that he’s not that self-aware when it comes to why he likes a girl, but when she has that sort of glint in her eye that says she’s not going to make it easy on them, that she’s using them as much as they are her, well. Tommy has slept on his couch before. He can hear the sounds through the wall.

It goes on like this for a while. They don’t talk about it, how they know what each other likes, how Tommy knows what it sounds like when Jon’s having really good sex and what it sounds like when he’s a little too drunk for it to work out. They don’t talk about it, up until they do.

Tommy is, admittedly, bordering on too high to pay attention to Jon explaining why he’d come back to Tommy’s apartment instead of his own when he wanders into his living room around midnight one night. He’d stayed late to help fix some non-crisis at work, so didn’t much fancy going out, let alone going to the effort of picking someone up. The weed is good though, and he’s finally winding down enough that he feels like he could actually sleep.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jon asks, exasperated. Tommy looks at him then, really looks at him. Jon’s trying at being annoyed but he’s got that easy way about him that means he’s just got laid.

He’s also got bite marks all over his thighs. Tommy notices this because Jon is stripping off his pants.

“ _Really_?” Tommy blurts, nodding his head in the direction of Jon’s thighs. Jon doesn’t even have the decency to look anything other than smug about it.

“I’m gonna have to object if you try to call me a horny teenager, Tommy, I’ve seen the necks of the girls that leave your apartment.”

“Liar.”

“Besides,” Jon continues, flopping onto the sofa next to Tommy, his fingers stroking over the marks on his thighs absentmindedly, “it’s only juvenile if it’s on the neck.”

“I think you just made that up.”

“I think _you_ have smoked too much weed to be on my ass like this.”

Tommy shrugs. It’s true.

“So you had a good night?” That gets a full body stretch from Jon, smug and catlike. When he tilts his head towards Tommy, his smile is wide and toothy and Tommy can’t say what makes him ask, but maybe - maybe it’s just that. Just Jon and his smile and Tommy’s curiosity. Also maybe the weed.

“What’d you do, then?” Tommy asks, the words spilling from his mouth like marbles.

There’s a beat. _Oops_ , Tommy thinks. _We don’t talk about that usually, do we._ But Jon is either a little drunk or still high off the endorphins or just feeling generous, because even as a gentle pink settles in high on his cheeks, he does start talking.

“She had, uh, long nails,” Jon says, shifting forward so Tommy can catch a glimpse of red scratches that streak their way up his back. Tommy grunts appreciatively; he’s had girls do that to him more than a few times, and it’s usually a good sign to carry on doing whatever he was doing.

“Liked it rough,” Jon continues, looking a little dreamy, “she wanted me to fuck her _hard_ , like, hard enough that I worried about hurting her, but it just made her louder.”

Tommy kind of wishes he could have heard. The sounds Jon makes get sweeter the closer he gets to coming, and he imagines that coupled with the moans of a girl would have been - it just, would have been.

Something.

-

Jon never really elaborates on the bruises on his thighs, distracted when Tommy decides to light up another joint, but his fingers drift back to them throughout the rest of the night, pressing at the tender points. The visual stays with Tommy for a while.

They don’t talk about it, but the next time they both pick up together there’s a strange sort of tension between them, like they’re both wondering the same thing. If this might be like last time. They let themselves into Jon’s apartment, specifically because he’s between roommates and has a spare room for now, and then they go their separate ways after the awkward dance of offering drinks and figuring out if the girls want to hang out together first. But once the door is closed and he has the girl - Pia, she tells him - to himself, he still can’t get his mind off of Jon, and what’s happening only a wall away.

Pia doesn’t seem to notice his distraction though, shuffling her jeans down over her thighs and tugging the black bodysuit thing she was wearing over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath it, so once she’s slipped it off she’s mostly naked, her tits bare, nipples already hard from the cold air of the room.

She raises her eyebrows expectantly. Tommy gets with the program. He tugs his shirt over his head in one movement, kicking off his jeans and taking the few steps across the room so that he can lean in and kiss her, push her back until she’s on the bed and he’s leaning over her. She moans when he gets his tongue in her mouth, archs up against him so her front is pressed against his chest, warm and inviting. He gets a hand on her tits, experiments a little with playing with her nipples, but when she doesn’t respond he lets his hand drift further down, stroking her sides and her belly and then cupping his hand over her underwear, feel the heat and the wetness there, letting her rub gently against him for a moment, seeking friction with increasing urgency.

They kiss for a little while longer, until his lips are tingling and she’s grinding against his hand, her own fingers digging into his hair with desperation.

“C’mon, _c’mon,_ give it to me,” she says, finally reaching down to shimmy her underwear over her hips, forcing him to sit back while she kicks them off, only to drag him back in so that she can get her legs over his shoulders. Tommy is happy to give her what she wants, so he ducks his head down between her legs, relishes in the feel of her feet pressed against his shoulder blades, her fingers in his hair and the sweet-salt taste when he finally gets his mouth on her, sucking and licking and listening to her moan.

He loves this part.

Figuring out what a woman likes by the the sounds she makes and the quiver of her thighs; how she might like the pressure rougher, faster on her clit, how she shivers when he stops suddenly, pressing his tongue flat against her and waiting just long enough that her hips twitch and she pushes herself against him, demanding. If she prefers his fingers or his tongue inside her.

He gets lost in it, for a little while, until he hears a sound - not Pia, whose own sounds have since become quiet sighs, gentle urging for him to continue - but her friend, a high, drawn out thing, followed by the low sound of Jon moaning in return. It makes Tommy freeze for a second, remembering what Jon told him about that other girl, wondering if that’s what they’d be doing now. If he liked it rough every time, or if that girl had been a one off. If he _wanted_ it more, but didn’t know how to ask.

Pia hums, tugs at his hair a little impatiently. “Sorry,” she says breathlessly, “Beth gets loud when guys eat her out.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh and breathing through the shuddering bolt of arousal her words send through him. One of her hands slips from his hair to cup the back of his head, and when he looks up at her the expression on her face is thoughtful.

“I had a threesome with her once,” she says slowly, and for a moment Tommy thinks she has the wrong idea, but then she adds: “the guy was sweet, like - eager to please, you know? Like your friend.” She smiles at him, just the upturn of one corner of her mouth, and Tommy gets the feeling that he’s given away something he didn’t know was there to begin with.

“Yeah?” he breathes, pressing a kiss to her thigh, nipping at the skin there before getting his mouth back on her.

“ _Ah -_ yeah,” she says, laughing a little, “I figured that he would, um, want to watch us together mostly, like, live lesbian porn you know? But, _ah_ \- but we ended up like, double teaming him, and - ah, _yeah just like that_ \--” she cuts herself off as he gets his fingers inside her finally, sucking on her clit in a way that has her thighs twitching and shaking.

She ends up coming just like that, grinding against his mouth and clenching around his fingers, and then she tugs him upward to kiss him and lick into his mouth and encourage him to get inside her. So he does, and they fuck, and she comes again before he does, and somewhere along the way the sounds from beyond the wall go silent. She doesn’t bring up the threesome again, so he doesn’t either, but he still wonders about it, when they’re laying in bed afterwards and she’s already drifted off.

What it would have looked like, the guy with his head between Pia’s legs and - maybe the other girl with her mouth wrapped around his dick, or maybe - maybe he’d been on all fours, and she’d had her fingers in his ass. Or a dildo, thick and wide and almost too much. Tommy thinks about it for a long, long while, long enough that his dick isn’t fully soft anymore, and he’s a little restless, and it’s only when he finally gives in and leaves his bedroom to get a drink from the kitchen that he realizes the guy he’d been picturing was absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, Jon.

He realizes this when he walks into the kitchen and Jon smiles at him from where he’s perched on the kitchen counter, a little demure, his head ducked to hide the flush of his cheeks. _Oh_. Tommy thinks. _Oh no._

And then Jon says “Hey Tommy.”

Casually, like he’s not the cause of the crisis Tommy is currently having. Like he doesn’t look the epitome of _debauched,_ sprawled across the kitchen counter. Tommy wonders, for one mad second, if Jon has orchestrated this - Tommy discovering him eating a cereal bar and sipping water, mostly naked, in the early hours of the morning. It’s maddening regardless; his hair is mussed in a way that speaks of fingers running through it, and although he’s not bruised the way he was last time Tommy saw him like this, he’s flushed and loose in a way that makes Tommy _want._

He’s only just realizing now exactly what that want involves.

“Hey,” Tommy says cautiously, “you have a good night?”

If the question surprises him Jon doesn’t let on. “Good,” he says, and before Tommy can decide whether to push him for more, he adds, “sorry if you could hear us,” and, “I’ve never been good at keeping quiet. You have a good night?”

It’s a loaded question. Jon is looking at him intently, and it’s only now, holding his gaze, that Tommy notices the wetness around his eyes, the way his nose is pink: he’s been crying.

“Are you okay?”

 _That_ surprises Jon, who was obviously expecting the conversation to go a different way. And Tommy will happily tell him all about what he did with Pia, but first he wants to know why Jon could possibly have been crying after what had at least  _seemed_ like a good lay.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just-” Jon says, like he’s going to obfuscate, but Tommy sees the moment when he changes his mind. When he decides to just tell Tommy the truth. “It just happens, sometimes. Like, after sex. I don’t know why.” He shrugs.

Tommy thinks that he should probably find it weird, but besides the fact that he’s definitely had sex with a girl or two that cried both during and after, the image is sparking interest in Tommy that it really shouldn’t. He decides to file that fact away until he can think about it in private.

“Oh,” he says stupidly, but he can see the nervousness on Jon’s face, like he expects Tommy to, what, make _fun_ of him for it? Laugh at him? Even without Tommy’s largely inappropriate burgeoning interest in the matter, he’s aware that this is clearly not the sort of thing he should be joking about.

“It happens,” Tommy says in the end, shrugging awkwardly, “I’m sure I’ve read that it’s an automatic reaction for some people. You’re releasing hormones, right? It makes sense.”

“Have _you_?” Jon asks, and Tommy fights a wince.

“Well, no. But it happens. It’s normal.” Jon looks doubtful, but he doesn’t argue. Maybe because he just doesn’t want to talk about it any more. So Tommy lets it go, instead going back to what Jon had asked earlier - he tells Jon about Pia, how she’d sighed and twitched against him, the desperate way she’d ground up against his hand and his mouth and sharp tug of her hands in his hair. He debates keeping what she’d said about the threesome to himself, but figures, why not? Tommy will give himself enough credit that he can keep whatever thoughts he has about it off his face.

Jon’s face is surprisingly hard to read though, when Tommy tells him. He laughs dutifully, he smiles and he nods and he raises his eyebrows when Tommy says they ‘double-teamed him’, but there’s nothing on his face that says he likes the idea himself. Nothing that says anything, really, and Tommy finds himself stupidly irritated by the non-reaction. He isn’t sure what he expected - it isn’t like he thought Jon would suddenly grin and suggest they try it themselves, but -

But. Tommy doesn’t know _what_ he wants. He keeps the comment Pia had made about Jon  being similar to the guy to himself, and when they run out of things to tell each other and finally call it quits, Tommy can’t help but dither as he makes his way back to his room, unsure why he feels, of all things, disappointed.

-

As much as everyone they know insists otherwise, Tommy and Jon _aren’t_ joined at the hip, and so some time passes - work is busy and they they don’t have time to go out, and there isn’t anything to talk about in that respect. Or, Jon might be hooking up still, but he isn’t telling Tommy. Which is fine, truly, because Tommy is still dealing with the strange ball of _want_ in his chest, acting as kindling, waiting for a spark, and he isn’t sure that he wants to risk messing with something he isn’t yet sure he understands fully. As it is, he doesn’t have to worry about it too much for a while, since they really are too busy to pick up or even hang out with each other outside of work, and that’s fine by him.

He puts it out his head so fully that when they finally _do_ end up in a corner of a bar, chatting to some girls that are only in town for the week, sharing knowing looks and watching the girls share their own, Tommy doesn’t really think about that little ball in his chest, just waiting for that spark to catch. He doesn’t think about Jon, the gentle way he touches the girl’s arm, her lower back as they leave, how those hands would feel on his own skin.

He doesn’t think about the noises Jon would be making, as they climb into separate taxis, go back to their separate apartments. He doesn’t think about it, and he doesn’t think about it, and he doesn’t let it distract him from the girl under his own hands, when they get back to his place - he kisses her, and he gets her legs curled around his waist, and he presses himself deep inside her in the hope that she’ll moan, the way he likes.

She’s quiet though. Tommy isn’t going to ask her to be loud for him; knows that it would be fake if she did, but he bites at her nipples and licks at her neck and into her mouth and even spanks her, a little, but all the while he feels antsy, like he’s missing something. Or like he’s waiting for something.

Tommy knows that he doesn’t exactly put up his best performance, but he’s still surprised when the girl, whose name he _still_ hasn’t caught and is feeling a little bad about, tells him she has to go around midnight. His face must give away his surprise, because she smiles ruefully.

“We’re leaving tomorrow? I’m pretty sure I told you that.”

Tommy thinks back through their conversations in the taxi then at the bar, when they’d been explaining what they were doing in the area and Jon had tapped his fingers on Tommy’s thigh, pulling his attention away so that he could share with him that look - the look that said _safe bet._ That must have been when she’d told him.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, sitting up and scanning the room for his clothes, not sure where he’d thrown them when he was stripping, “do you want me to drive you to my - to Jon’s? So you can meet up with your friend?”

She looks up from her phone, eyes him for a second like she’s weighing up if he’s being serious or not, then looks back down and types out something. There’s a beat, and then she says, “sure, why not. Saves the cost of a taxi on my own,” and then, after she watches him appreciatively as he walks over to his discarded underpants and pulls them on, she adds, “thanks.”

Tommy doesn’t mind driving her really, since Jon isn’t all that far away, and the traffic will be negligible at this time of night. His mind flashes briefly to the bruises on Jon’s thighs, the scratches on his back and the way he had looked with wide, wet eyes. Then he pushes them away and starts searching around for his shirt. If Tommy has an ulterior motive for driving her to Jon’s, no one but he has to know.

-

The girls don’t hang around long. They get their stuff together, spend a minute awkwardly dancing around their goodbyes and whether to act like they’re ever going to meet again before finally giving up on the pretence and leaving without offering their numbers. Tommy invites himself in, grabbing a glass of water and collapsing onto the sofa next to Jon, who shoots him a sideways glance.

“You staying here tonight?”

Tommy hums. “That okay?”

“Sure. You’ll have to sleep on the sofa or share with me, although - uh, maybe here is best,” he laughs, scratches at his jaw, “I don’t have any spare sheets, so.”

For a minute Tommy thinks that Jon is telling him he doesn’t have spare sheets for him to use on the sofa, but then he gets it. He doesn’t have spare sheets to change his _bed_.

“Gross,” Tommy equivocates, but adds, “I’m sure I’ve slept in worse. Did you-” he trails off, grimacing. He isn’t really sure where that sentence was going, or if he even wants to finish it.

Jon’s ears are pink, and Tommy is sure his are equally so. He can feel the rising heat in his face, and he can’t help but wonder why Jon has an uncanny ability to make him feel like a teenager, fumbling and embarrassed. If it’s a Jon thing, or a both-of-them thing.

“I’m not saying there’s like, a wet patch, man. Just. You know.”

Tommy does know. And if he didn’t, it hits him immediately when he follows Jon into his bedroom, thankful that Jon isn’t questioning his decision not to sleep on the couch (and trying not to question it himself), and is confronted with the smell of him - of both of them, Tommy guesses. That deep, lingering smell of sex that should really _really_ not be making Tommy’s dick take interest. He thinks that maybe he should tag along with Jon next time he goes to church when his parents visit, try out confession, but _then_ he’s thinking about prayer and confessional boxes and Jon on his knees, and has to quickly push the thought away. _Jesus Christ._ He has to get a hold of himself.

Jon doesn’t seem to notice anything, and honestly he looks like he’s falling asleep on his feet, so Tommy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask him about how his night went or god forbid, when the last time he went to confession was, just strips off his pants and gets under the covers. He watches Jon do the same, peers through the darkness to see if there are any marks on his skin, but decides he’ll just have to look in the morning. It’s too dark to discern anything right now.

Tommy finds himself holding his breath as Jon slips under the covers, knowing it’s stupid to be acting like he is after being friends for so long, and especially with _Jon_ , and knowing that Jon won’t be thinking anything of it. Won’t think anything of the way he slides into Tommy’s personal space, his arm pressed against Tommy’s, his face close enough to - to -

“Have you ever spanked a girl?” Tommy says, which is an awkward and stupid thing to say, especially when he’s pretty sure that Jon was most of the way to drifting off already, but it’s better than _doing_ a stupid thing, like touching Jon’s bare chest or kissing him, like Tommy really wanted to. There is a long, drawn out pause, where he can only hear their breathing, harsh in the silence of the room.

“I’ve done it before,” Jon says, the phrasing awkward in his mouth, “did you do that with Beth?”

Shit. _Beth_. She’d introduced her and the other girl, Karin, when Tommy had first asked if they could join them. Tommy isn’t usually this bad with names, and he sort of feels like a tool.

“Beth, yeah,” Tommy says into the darkness, staring up at the faint glimmer of light from outside stretching across the ceiling and listening to Jon snicker, obviously aware that Tommy had forgotten, “she said she wanted to change position, and she got on all fours and - it was - her ass was so red. And you - you’ve done that before?” Tommy doesn’t know what he’s saying. Doesn’t know why he’s saying this, why they’re doing this again, why he _wants_ to.

Jon hums, says something under his breath, almost too quiet to make out. Tommy can just about hear though; Jon said _yeah_. He said _yeah, it felt good_. Tommy feels a white hot flush spread through his body. Did Jon mean it like Tommy thought?

“Oh,” Tommy says, feels the word echo through the darkness, idiotic.

“Yeah, uh, is that weird?” Jon asks, shifting around so that his voice is closer, his face probably turned towards Tommy, “I don’t know, it was that girl with the wet-look pants that you picked out for me, you remember?” Tommy did remember. Tommy had made a stupid joke about them, he can’t even remember it now, but she’d laughed dutifully and then explained to them the difference between leather, wet-look, and PVC. And then she’d gone back to Jon’s and _spanked him._

“She asked if I wanted to try it and I figured, uh, why not, you know? Did you? Like it?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, entirely caught up in the visual, “yeah, sure, she was - you were pretty well fucked out when I saw you that morning. Fucking. _D_ _opey,_ which uh, makes sense now I guess. Beth was like - I’ve never seen anything like it. She was so relaxed after, like she was drunk off it. It felt like that, for you?”

Jon goes silent again for a bit, and yet again Tommy wonders if he’s finally crossed a line, finally shown his way-too-invested hand, but all Jon does is sigh, shifting around again, and say, “exactly like that.”

Tommy wants to ask more questions, wants to know if it hurt to sit the next day, if the marks lingered and if Jon would ever want it again, with a larger, stronger hand. Instead, he stays silent, listening to nothing as Jon slowly drifts off next to him.

-

They carry on doing it. Tommy wakes up the following morning, and between rolling out of Jon’s bed and eating breakfast, they talk about the sex they had the night before. Then the next time they go out, Tommy claps Jon on the back and tells him _good choice_ , _she was totally into being man-handled_. The time after that, Jon explains why he likes being bitten so much, and Tommy tells him about how the girl had asked him to choke her, but he’d refused, resting his hands on her neck as a compromise. It happens over and over, and although Jon never tells him about anything else quite so damaging to his psyche as the spanking, which took _weeks_ for Tommy to get over, it’s still its own kind of hell.

Things come to a head in a way that Tommy honestly should have been coming. They are at a bar. They are bordering on maybe a little _too_ drunk. Jon is flirting with a man with biceps the size of Tommy’s waist. Jon is _flirting with a man_. Jon is saying something to Tommy but the bar is loud and his hearing is fuzzy and all he hears is _I’m going … Rob with … see ... tomorrow?_ And Tommy doesn’t know what to say in the face of this new revelation; in the face of his own intense jealousy, in the face of Jon being held close to the body of this gym rat who’s probably an _idiot_ or _dangerous_ or - exactly what Jon is looking for. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to his head.

He blurts, “catch me up later,” and then he makes a swift exit before he has to see Jon’s reaction.

-

Tommy can tell that Jon is reluctant to meet for breakfast, whether it's because he doesn’t want to talk about his night or because he’s still with the guy right now and Tommy is cock-blocking potential morning sex, but he honestly doesn’t care. He’d been jittery for the rest of the night, contemplated picking up himself, but ultimately decided that he wasn’t interested in fucking a girl, and trying to find a guy would be - well, weird. He hasn’t done it before, and he half knows in the back of his head that whatever guy he’d choose would either a) look like Jon, or b) be compared to Jon, and also be found lacking. So he went home, and he drank some water, and then he got into bed and spent the night watching gay porn. Not even to jerk off to, although he did end up doing so, but more as an exercize in masochism - exploring the myriad of things that Jon and _Rob_ could be doing while _he_ was alone in his bed, trying to figure out if he was more jealous or turned on by what he was imagining.

The jealousy won out, and after a restless night of dream-filled sleep, he finally just sits up and texts Jon: _brunch?_ The three dots that say Jon is typing disappear and reappear for long enough that Tommy thinks he really might just be blown off, but finally Jon does reply. _Ok._  Tommy doesn’t have to wonder about his tone for long though, because when he turns up at the local place they frequent and spots Jon, it’s obvious that he wants to be literally anywhere but here. Tommy debates feeling bad for a second, but then the self-righteous outrage that Jon had never told him about his interest in men flares up again - the jealousy and the shame at his own hypocrisy mixed in there too - and he goes to join Jon with what he hopes is a innocent expression on his face.

Jon is dishevelled. It’s the best way Tommy can describe it; his hair is messy, his clothes are hastily put on, Tommy thinks that Jon probably had a five minute shower before he came out, because his shirt is a little damp, clinging to his skin. There is stubble burn on his neck, peeking over the collar of his shirt. When he stretches and his shirt rides up half-way through their meal, there are bruises on his hips. He’s so thoroughly debauched, shower or not, that Tommy feels his whole world tilt sideways, the past however many months suddenly coming into glaring focus.

He _knew_ he was feeling something for Jon, he’s not an idiot. But it’s become a reality now in a way that it wasn’t before. This isn’t a fleeting fancy, a curiosity born of too much shared knowledge. It’s Jon, being Jon, and it’s Tommy, the idiot in love with him.

It’s Jon, with another man’s marks all over his body. _Fuck_ this.

“So did you enjoy your night with _Rob_?” Tommy asks in the end, while they’re waiting for their bill. He tries to keep the derision out of his tone, tries to be delicate if nothing else other than to prevent Jon from thinking that his irritation has anything to do with it being a man that Jon went home with, but Jon’s furrowed eyebrows suggest that he isn’t successful. Jon doesn’t look up at him, staring down at the table, fiddling with his wallet.

“It was good,” he says finally, his voice quiet, tentative. “He - it was just. Good. Are we okay Tommy?”

The question startles him. “What - of course we’re okay. You know that I don’t care he was a guy, right?” There’s a quiet moment where Tommy figures that Jon definitely did think that, and curses himself. So much for being delicate. “Really,” he says, lowering his voice, “really, Jon. It’s fine. I uh. I do too, so.”

Jon lifts his eyes from the table finally, staring at Tommy in shock. Tommy’s admission lingers between them like something tangible, and the echoing silence stays unbroken until a waitress interrupts by handing them the bill. Jon shakes his head to himself, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but he doesn’t say anything. They don’t really speak at all as they leave the cafe, and Tommy is prepared to call it quits and go home to stew in his own feelings, but then Jon suddenly turns to face him on the sidewalk, face determined.

He’s a few inches too close to be called casual, and his shoulders are level, back straight. Tommy doesn’t have to ask what he’s doing, because Jon asks him, tone more of a demand, “come back to mine.”

 

Jon.

Jon doesn’t know what he’s doing. He feels giddy. He feels like a teenager. He feels very thoroughly fucked is what he feels, and in all likelihood his plan is about to backfire and his assumptions are going to bite him in the ass and their friendship will be ruined forever, but until then. Until then he lets himself be selfish and greedy and happy about the marks on his body, the ache inside him and the lingering itch of beard burn on his neck. He didn’t sleep with Rob to make Tommy jealous, hadn’t even thought about… _that_ , as a possibility, but now it’s happened, and he’s seen Tommy’s face when he talked about Rob - well. Add that to the surprising admission of his own interest in men, Jon was starting to feel like this might actually work out.

He thinks back over the past months, telling each other in detail all the ways they would fuck other people; going to his room and jerking off in private afterwards, excusing it to himself as a natural reaction to talking about sex like that. He’s been making a lot of excuses for his own reactions to Tommy recently. It’s just that he’s always seemed so untouchable, so beyond Jon’s wildest dreams that he had automatically shifted him into the ‘never going to happen’ section of his brain and called it good.

Until now. Until last night, when he’d started to have an inkling, because he _knew_ that Tommy wouldn’t have an issue with the guy thing, he just _knew,_  so the only other option was, well, jealousy. But it wasn’t until today, sat across from Tommy and watching the way he was all twisted up about it, his face after he’d told Jon _I do too_ , that Jon had finally understood.

Jon was an opportunist. Jon was a _boy scout._  He could work with what he had.

So it goes like this: Jon invites Tommy over. They sit on his sofa. Jon flashes his smile and ducks his head, coy, and then Tommy goes abruptly pink. _Furiously_ pink. Jon fights not to laugh, not wanting to make fun of him, but it feels good to be right - it feels good to be on even ground again. If Tommy is into him, then he knows where he’s at. Sure, him and Tommy together are new territory, and it is _absolutely_ terrifying, but it’s terrifying in a way that's also anticipatory. In a way that will hopefully be worth it.

It goes like this: Jon curves his body towards Tommy while he tells him what he did last night, about how he was pressed against the wall, face first, the noises he made muffled against his arm. He tells him, fighting his own embarrassment, his cheeks probably as pink as Tommy’s, about how thick the guys fingers were, how it felt to be _small_ for once, how much he liked the stubble burn that spread down his throat and the inside of his thighs.

And it goes like this: Tommy, rigid with what is _absolutely_ jealousy, and with anger that is palpable, listens and listens and listens to Jon tell him all the sordid details of his night with Rob, until Jon has nothing left to tell him. Jon wonders, for a quick second, if maybe Tommy isn’t going to do anything, and if this was a mistake after all. But then, before he can ask Tommy about the men that _he_ might have been with in the past, Tommy sits forward and finally finally _finally,_ just kisses him. Takes his face in his hands, thumbs bruising on his cheekbones, licking into his mouth like he's trying to overwrite any evidence of Rob - and Jon sighs.

Lets himself fall into it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how this fic just became 'Tommy bearing witness to the variety found in Jon's sex escapades' but it is what it is.


End file.
